No Greater Pleasure by Megan Hart Read Free Book Online Page A

it quite so difficult,” she said to the empty room.
    She knew there would always be those who would not be soothed and satisfied, no matter what was offered them. She was beginning to wonder if Gabriel Delessan was such a man.
    “So many blessings,” she murmured, folding the soiled gown and setting it aside to be cleaned. She tugged her shift off over her head and folded that, as well. “Yet so little joy.”
    True, a mad wife and a son possibly not his own would be cause to make any man frown. And yet, there was more to him than that. From what Florentine had said, Master Gabriel had never been joyous.
    She refused to think the task might be too great for her. He had called for her, at least he’d done that, and while his motives might not have been as pure as she could have hoped, it showed he was at least interested in appeasement. On some level, anyway.
    She recalled the way his eyes had blazed when he’d told her never to wash his hands again. It had made him angry, that simple act of caretaking that was as natural and unaffected to her as opening a door for someone whose hands were full of packages.
    On the morrow she would see about replacing his battered kettle and ruined cups and creating some special teas. Something a bit spicy, to complement his temper and prevent him from becoming too complacent, tempered with a calming herb, like lady’s lace, to soothe his easily provoked temper. The art of tea had been only one of many Quilla studied, and she took pride in brewing special mixes suited to the personality of her patrons. Something with a hint of sweetness to chase the bitterness from his tongue, but not so sweet as to make him sour in response.
    A flower is made more beautiful by its thorns . Gabriel had many thorns and few blossoms. And yet, there was something, a glimpse, a hint, of something beneath the prickly exterior. She pondered it all the while she bathed, and while she slipped between clean sheets to fall asleep. What would make him soften?
    She awoke to screaming. Quilla sat up in bed, heart pounding and eyes bulging wide against the darkness. She could see naught but the bright sparkles her fear had created in her vision.
    She listened. The scream rose again, a thin wail that pierced her ears despite the distance from which it must have come. Then it cut off. Silence once more.
    She lay back on her pillow and pulled the covers up around her neck. What on earth had that been? It could have been a beast outside, a great cat stalking its prey or the prey itself squealing. Yet it hadn’t sounded like it came from outside.
    So it had come from inside. A scream in the night was never good news. She waited, listening, but it didn’t come again. It was a long time before she could fall back to sleep.
     
     
     
    B y the time Delessan entered the workshop in the morning, Quilla had already replaced the soiled rugs and rearranged the furniture in front of the fireplace. She’d added a footstool and covered the faded chair with a woven throw. She traded the battered kettle for one in better repair, along with a set of plain but un-chipped teacups. In the pinkish light of dawn and the red gold light from the fire, the room had become almost pleasant. She’d done nothing to his worktable, but the rest of it well pleased her.
    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