No Greater Pleasure by Megan Hart Read Free Book Online

comfortable.
    Apparently, not Gabriel Delessan. His eyes widened for a moment before narrowing, his lips parting briefly before pressing into a thin, grim line.
    “Think you I am incapable of washing my own hands?”
    “Of course not.” Quilla held out the pitcher and the soap. “If you don’t wish me to help—”
    “By help you mean doing it for me.”
    “If it pleases you.”
    Delessan made a noise low in his throat. “You would wash my hands for me as though I were a child.”
    “I would wash your hands for you if it pleased you to allow me to serve you in that way,” Quilla replied. “And if it is your pleasure that I do that for you, then in the future, every time you eat when I am present, I shall provide the same service, so that you won’t ever have to think of it for yourself.”
    “I rather like thinking for myself, Handmaiden. I’ve grown somewhat accustomed to it.”
    Nodding, she held out the pitcher and the soap. “You might allow yourself to grow accustomed to my service as well.”
    Silently, he held out his hands over the basin. Quilla poured a stream of water over them to wet them, then put the pitcher down and wet the soap, rubbing it between her hands to create a soft lather. Then she set it aside and took each of his hands, one after another, in hers and gently rubbed them clean. She laid them down in the basin and rinsed them both with more warm water, then used the soft towel to dry them.
    Then she stepped back and Waited. She hadn’t been looking at his face while she washed his hands, concentrating instead on making certain she removed all traces of residue from his skin. Now, the intensity of his gaze startled her.
    He stared at her with burning eyes, two bright spots of color high on his pale cheeks. His hands stayed where she’d left them, on the table next to the bowl. Only now, his fingers had curled, gripping the table edge.
    “My lord—”
    “Don’t do that again,” he interrupted harshly. “I did not care for it. Not at all.”
    Then he bent his head to the food and did not speak to her again.
     
     
     
    W hen dusk purpled the windows, he left off his work and vanished into his bedroom without another word to her. He had not, in fact, spoken to her since the midday meal. Quilla had spent the rest of the day on her hands and knees, scrubbing the wooden floor and sending out the faded rugs to be beaten. Now, her body ached with the pleasant aftereffects of a day well spent in physical labor, and she wanted little more than to go to her quarters and take a hot bath, put on a night rail, and slip into dreams.
    She put away the cleaning supplies and smoothed the tangled tendrils of her hair off cheeks she was certain were smudged with grime. From inside his bedroom she heard the sound of shuffling. She tapped the door frame.
    “My lord, if you have no more need of me today—”
    “Go. You’re free to go.”
    She nodded, though of course he could not see her. “Would you like me to bring you something to eat before I retire?”
    “No.” More shuffling. The door cracked open and he peered out with one wary, loch-colored eye. “I am to dine with my wife this evening.”
    “Then I’ll go?”
    “Yes, yes, go. I said go, didn’t I?”
    The door shut in her face, and she paused a moment, then let herself out of his rooms. Climbing the stairs to her room left her weary and winded by the sheer multitude and steepness of them, and the winding, narrow curves.
    “An odd location to house a Handmaiden,” she grumbled through gasps as she let herself into her room. “The farthest point away from him.”
    She didn’t mind the garret room, which was plain but comfortable enough, and the luxury of her own bath chamber was something she truly appreciated. Still, the thought of climbing these stairs day and night did make her resolve to eat more and seek a restorative concoction from the local medicus, if only to make sure she didn’t wear herself down.
    “He needn’t make