No Greater Pleasure Read online

  “By the Arrow, I can feel your desire.” His voice shook and broke. “I want to taste you. Tell me you want that.”

  “I want you to put your mouth on me,” she whispered, unable to speak any louder. “Please, Gabriel.”

  His hand left her, and she made a noise of protest, but in the next moment he had pushed upward, off the chair, and laid her down on the rug in front of the fireplace, all in one smooth motion. His body covered hers, the heat of his erection against her thigh, prominent even through two layers of clothes.

  He kissed her again, rocking against her, his hard cock pressing between her legs in a way that made her squirm. He sat up, hand going to his tie and tugging it free. Quilla started to sit, to assist him, but he shook his head.

  “You will not move.”

  She lay back and watched him pull off his tie, unbutton and shrug out of his shirt, strip out of his trousers. When he stood naked before her, cast in shadows of gold and black and red from the fire, her breath caught.

  Then he knelt beside her and his fingers went to the row of buttons on the front of her gown. They began at the banded collar and went to the hem, and Gabriel began with the topmost one.

  He unhooked each button from its hole and spread the fabric as far as he was able, kissing every section as he exposed it. The neckline of the simple white shift she wore beneath began just above the curve of her breasts, and by the time he got there, she was already struggling to remember to breathe.

  Gabriel laid open the cloth of her gown over her chest and nuzzled her breasts through the shift, sucking first one nipple and then the other through the material until it was wet through and both nipples stood erect. His fingers continued with the buttons as he kissed and sucked her nipples.

  By the time his hands reached her waist, shivers of desire ran through her. His mouth continued to follow the path left by the open buttons, his kisses undulled by the layer of flaxen between his lips and her skin. Farther still, to her thighs, and the heat of his mouth found her heat. He kissed her there, nuzzling through the shift, and she cried out. His fingers moved faster on the buttons, pulling up the hem to finish and lay the gown completely open.

  For an interminable moment he stared down at her, doing nothing. Until she spoke.

  “Please.”

  He put his hands to the front of her shift and tore it open, right down the front. The air hit her skin and she gasped and arched her back. His hands smoothed over her breasts, rolling her nipples, then over the slope of her belly, to the tender skin of her inner thighs. He parted her legs, laid himself between them, and kissed her curls. His tongue found her clit.

  Quilla stopped thinking.

  There was nothing to think of but the way his mouth felt on her, the scratch of his unshaven chin on her skin, the wet heat of his tongue stroking her over and over until the flow of her blood seemed to no longer go toward her heart, but to the secret place between her legs. Her pulse pounded there, every beat of it sending her closer and closer to the edge.

  She tightened her fingers in his hair, not holding him to her, holding on to him to save herself from the feeling she was going to let loose from the earth and fly upward to the stars. Fire filled her, and the surge of the sea. The pulse and pound of creation suffused her, weighed her down and lifted her up all at the same time.

  The dance of his tongue stopped as she hovered on the brink. His breath puffed against her, a touch as light as stardust drifting through a nighttime sky, or the flutter of a lady beetle’s wings against a flower from which it supped.

  Then he kissed her again, his mouth infinitely gentle against her skin, and it was, at last, enough.

  Fire and water. Earth and air. All combined in elemental force to tip her toward climax. It surely was the gift of the Invisible Mother, this capacity for ecstasy, and Quilla cried out a blessing in Kedalya’s name first, then Gabriel’s name after that.

  For some moments she was unable to move or to speak. Quilla blinked and looked at him, surprised to see his eyes glimmered as though with tears.

  “Gabriel,” she said quietly. “My heart.”

  He groaned and covered her again with his body, and slid inside her but did not move at first. Quilla wrapped her arms and legs around him, holding him to her. When he at last began moving, the sensation made her gasp aloud, pleasure filling her again though she’d already been so well completed.

  He kissed her, hard, nothing gentle about these biting kisses. His mouth traveled down her throat and to the curve of her shoulder, where he bit the collarbone hard enough to make her cry out; but she did not protest beyond that because in the next moment he soothed the hurt with his tongue and lips and murmured into her ear. Not words of love. No, she did not expect that from him.

  His thrusts became more ragged, until he cried out her name again and thrust once more before collapsing on top of her.

  His weight made breathing difficult, but Quilla made no complaints. She stroked his back over and over again, and after a bit he slid most of his weight off her but kept his face buried in her shoulder.

  Quilla said nothing, for nothing seemed to be needed, and after a while he got up and took her to his bed, where he slipped under the covers with her and held her against him while he slept.

  It took her a bit longer to find the oblivion of dreams. Quilla lay in the darkness with Gabriel’s hand on her breast, her buttocks nestled against his groin. She heard the creak of the door, and held her breath, shifting naught but her gaze toward it.

  In the dark, a pale hand gleamed, a flash of what might have been a golden curl. Then nothing, no sound, no word, not even the hissing sob or cry that meant someone watched them.

  Yet Quilla knew they had been watched, and who had stood there.

  He did not, overnight, become a considerate and solicitous lover. He did not wake her with kisses and love poetry, nor did Gabriel seem to have more patience for her in the workroom.

  Yet Quilla noticed the differences in him. A glance he allowed to linger a bit longer than before. The way he thanked her when she passed him a vial, or prepared his tea. The simple but telling manner in which he allowed her to button his white work coat for him.

  To others it might have seemed like nothing, but to Quilla it was as though he’d shouted his affection for her from the roof. Affection; she dared not allow herself to think of it as more than that. Nor did she allow herself to dwell on the turn her feelings had taken for him.

  For now, it was enough to serve him as best she could. To make certain the simple pleasures she could provide were constant and consistent. To continue giving him what he needed before he needed it.

  To keep filling Sinder’s Quiver.

  He did not make love to her in front of the fireplace again, but then, he didn’t drink heavily, either. But in the afternoon, when he sent her away, he always added, “I would have you here tonight.”

  She knew what he did in the hours between the time she left him and the time she came back. He spent them with Saradin, or with his son, and Quilla did not begrudge him the time spent with either.

  His lady wife had not improved, despite the daily time Gabriel spent with her. Saradin seemed to alternate between ranting rages and sullen silence, at least according to Florentine, who presumably got her information from Allora Walles.

  The medicus had come, but could do nothing for her.

  “She’s mad as May,” said Florentine as she rolled out yet another day’s worth of bread. “And not from the mercury, mind you. ’Tis her own jealous nature.”

  Quilla paused in icing the cinnamon-flavored muffins on the plate in front of her. “You would blame me?”

  Florentine looked up, face surprised. “No, Quilla Caden. I don’t blame you.”

  “Because it sounded as though you did.”

  Florentine wiped her hands upon her apron. “Do you feel guilty?”

  “Of her jealous nature?” Quilla shook her head. “Of her madness? No.”

  Florentine knew too muc
h, was too shrewd. “Of taking her place in her husband’s bed, perhaps?”

  “No.”

  “What about her place in his heart, then?” the chatelaine asked slyly, punching down the dough again.

  Quilla said nothing as she continued icing.

  Florentine barked out a laugh. “I thought you’d say ’tis but part of your job.”

  Quilla shook her head. Florentine laughed again. “No? Not to make him love you?”

  Quilla’s hands paused. “I don’t know that he loves me.”

  “And what of you?” Florentine pursed her lips and made a rude noise.

  Quilla gave her a steady look. “It’s not my place to love him.”

  “Haven’t you ever loved a man before?” Florentine shaped the dough into a loaf and set it aside to rise, then dove into the bowl again and did the same with another handful. “Or a woman?”

  Quilla shook her head. “No.”

  Florentine shook her head. “Yet surely you’ve had ’em love you.”

  “I do my best to be what they need,” Quilla replied. “Not what they love.”

  Florentine looked upward. “And if what he needs is to love you?”

  Quilla looked down at the table, then replied in a low voice, “He is not free to love me, Florentine.”

  “Think you a marriage contract can stop what’s in the heart? People do it all the time, Quilla Caden. Fall in and out of love. Words on a paper can’t change it.” Florentine paused. “He’s taken you to his bed. That should tell you something of what he feels for you.”

  “Lovemaking is not love.” Quilla finished the rolls and set them aside.

  “What are you so afraid of?” Florentine’s voice sounded surprisingly soft. Almost gentle. It made sudden tears spring to Quilla’s eyes, which she forced away by blinking fast.

  “I am afraid of failing my purpose,” she whispered.

  “Because you can’t love him?”

  Quilla looked up and shook her head, no longer able to keep a tear from escaping and sliding down her cheek. “No. Because I do.”

  Florentine covered Quilla’s hand with hers. “ ’Tis not a failure, Quilla. I would say that to be the greatest success.”

  Quilla turned her palm up to squeeze Florentine’s hand, and smiled through her tears. “You are a sentimental biddy.”

  Florentine squeezed back and grinned. “Something I’ll deny to my grave.”

  And then the cook went back to her work, and Quilla went to hers, the words Florentine had spoken echoing over and over in her mind.

  There came the day when Gabriel surprised her. “It would please me if you would join me for dinner this evening.”

  He made the invitation as though it were of no consequence, but it made Quilla turn from the bookcase, dustcloth still in her hand.

  “My lord?”

  “Dinner, Handmaiden,” he repeated irritably. “This evening. Unless you have a prior engagement?”

  “Of course I don’t.” She smiled.

  He frowned. “I’ve had something delivered to your room. Wear it tonight instead of that rag you’ve got on now.”

  Quilla looked down at her dark blue gown, which couldn’t be considered a rag even by the most fashionably snide. She pressed her lips together on another smile. “If it pleases you, my lord.”

  “It does,” he snapped, turning back to the notebook on his desk. He scribbled a few more lines, and added, “And wear your hair down.”

  “Yes, my lord. Anything else?”

  He looked up, frowning again. “And be on time.”

  “Of course.”

  She went back to dusting the bookcase, glad for something to occupy her hands that did not require thought. Dinner. A gown. And his belligerence, which was perhaps meant to be off-putting but instead only made her smile.

  “Must you be so noisy?” he complained.

  “I plead your mercy.”

  Gabriel scowled, rubbing his forehead. “I’m trying to work and you continue to make that infernal noise. Why don’t you go, Handmaiden. Use the extra time to prepare yourself for tonight.”

  She put the cloth down. “If it pleases you.”

  “It pleases me!” he cried, staring at his notebook.

  Quilla went over to him and leaned down to kiss his cheek. “Then I shall go.”

  Before she could pull away, he’d taken her hand to hold her in place. Then he let her go, as though his own action had startled him. “Good,” he said gruffly. “Because your presence is naught but distraction to me.”

  Which was meant to be an insult but was instead a compliment, she thought as she did as he’d asked and left him.

  Quilla had taken extra care with her ablutions in preparation for dinner. She took a long, scented bath and washed her hair, drying it in front of the fire and combing it into long curls over her shoulders and down her back.

  The gown he’d sent was simple in design but luxurious in fabric. Beads dangled from the short puffed sleeves and at the hem. With its bodice and overskirt of claret-colored velvet and underskirt of silk in bronze, the gown made Quilla feel like a princess.

  She was not quite certain what to expect from the meal itself. She arrived at the dining room, on time of course, to discover the table had been set for three. Fully lit lamps and candelabras brightened the room, and pretty but not exquisite china and flatware adorned the place settings. She saw a basket of braided rolls, a crock of butter, a platter of sliced fowl. Simple food, though certain to be delicious despite its lack of ornament.

  Gabriel stood when she entered the room. “Good evening, Tranquilla Caden.”

  “Good evening, Gabriel Delessan.”

  “Good evening, Quilla!” piped up Dane from his place at his father’s right. “Father says you are to join us for dinner tonight, and Florentine made treacle pudding for dessert!”

  “It sounds lovely,” replied Quilla with a smile. She moved toward the third place, at Gabriel’s left, and he pulled the chair out for her.

  Every inch the gentleman, he helped her sit and pushed the chair in for her, too, before taking his own place.

  “Father says I am to behave myself.” Dane tapped his fork against his plate until a look from Gabriel silenced him. “Father says we are to make good dinner conv . . . conv . . .”

  “Conversation,” Gabriel prompted, then looked at Quilla. “It’s time he learned to eat with adults. He’s been indulged at the nursery table long enough.”

  “I’m happy to eat with you, young Master Dane,” Quilla told the boy. “And have conversation.”

  “Father says the lady is not expected to guide the conversation, only to respond, and that ’tis the gentleman’s job to make sure she feels included.”

  Quilla raised an eyebrow and looked at Gabriel. “Is that so?”

  Dane nodded. “Oh, yes. Father says women like to talk, but usually about silly things like dresses and poetry. Would you like to talk about dresses, Quilla?”

  Quilla shook her head. “No, Master Dane. I don’t believe so.”

  She kept her eyes from Gabriel to prevent herself from laughing at the lad.

  “Oh, good,” said the boy in obvious relief. “Because dresses are quite dull. Though yours is very nice,” he added as an afterthought. “You look very pretty. Doesn’t Quilla look pretty, Father?”

  “She does, indeed.” Gabriel’s tone was bemused and more casual than she’d heard in a long time.

  Quilla looked at him. “Any woman would look lovely in such a gown.”

  “Florentine wouldn’t,” put in Dane, which earned a muffled laugh from Vernon as he ladled soup into Dane’s bowl. “And I don’t think Allora Walles would, either. Her arms are too plump for a dress like that.”

  “Dane, ’tis not nice to comment on such things.”

  “Allora Walles thinks she is lovely,” said Dane, spooning broth. “But she’s not as lovely as you are.”

  “No, I daresay she isn’t.” Gabriel spooned some of his own broth, eyes on Quil
la.

  “And Allora Walles pinches! Quilla never pinches!”

  “I certainly do not,” Quilla said as Vernon filled her bowl.

  “Jorja doesn’t pinch, either. She does pull my ears, though.” Dane scowled, stirring the soup in his bowl and then dunking a bit of roll in it. “She says I’m naughty.”

  “And I’m sure she has reason to say it,” Gabriel said sternly. “If your manners at this table are any indication of the way you behave elsewhere.”

  Dane looked chastened, but only for a moment. “Quilla, have you told my father about my skates from Uncle Jericho?”

  Gabriel looked up from his soup to stare at her. Dane continued on, not noticing his father’s interest.

  “Father, Uncle Jericho gave me skates and Quilla and Uncle helped me use them in the gallery! And I skated all the way back and forth, and I learned to spin . . .”—Dane paused, biting his lip—“and I broke a bust, but Uncle said you wouldn’t care, as it was of his father.”

  “Is that so?” The easy tone had vanished.

  Dane nodded, slurping soup so it splattered on the tablecloth. “Father, if Uncle Jericho is your brother, why haven’t you the same father? And, Father, will I ever have a brother or a sister? Will I, Father?”

  Gabriel had pushed away his bowl, and Vernon removed it. Quilla spooned the last mouthful of broth into her mouth, refusing to allow his sudden change of mood to upset her.

  “Because I should like a brother or sister, Father.” Dane handed his bowl to the butler, who then began serving from the platter of fowl. “But one who has the same father as me, I guess. Because you’re the best father, ever.”

  This made Gabriel turn to his son, mouth slightly open. “So you say?”

  Dane nodded firmly. “Uncle Jericho does buy me merrier toys, Father, but I still think you’re the best father.”

  “He buys you merry toys because he has no other responsibilities to you,” Gabriel said.

  Dane grinned, his smile a near exact copy of Jericho’s. “I did have the most merry time with the skates. Didn’t I, Quilla?”